Blacks can be more finicky for me than I thought they would be. On some days? Mind quakingly good. On another day, the same tea might be disappointingly bleh. It leads me to believe that I either need to pay much closer attention to what I’m doing or that my palate is not ill-equipped on some occasions to calibrate itself into the “magic” place.

Here’s hoping you hit a sweet note on the tea before your sample runs out.

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Blacks can be more finicky for me than I thought they would be. On some days? Mind quakingly good. On another day, the same tea might be disappointingly bleh. It leads me to believe that I either need to pay much closer attention to what I’m doing or that my palate is not ill-equipped on some occasions to calibrate itself into the “magic” place.

Here’s hoping you hit a sweet note on the tea before your sample runs out.

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Somebody asked me once when I became a tea junkie; I think it dates back to college when I needed caffeine for a 7 a.m. class but chose not to do coffee. My favorite teapot is a medium-sized Brown Betty given to me by my Mema; the painted flowers are chipping off, but the size and feel is perfect. I rejoice when I get a morning to brew a pot of loose tea starting with a kettle; not a bag and a hot pot.